Why so many victims don’t realise they have been raped until later

MP Charlotte Nichols recently took the brave step to speak publicly about her rape trial experiences in parliament. Nichols endured a 1,088-day wait for her case to reach court. This experience led her to speak out, in a debate over the government’s plan to cut jury trials in England and Wales. Arguing that the proposals would only minimally reduce wait times, she called instead for the creation of special courts to hear rape cases.

Later, in an in-depth Guardian interview, Nichols disclosed that it took her 48 hours to mentally accept that what had happened to her was rape. This delay was used against her in court to undermine her credibility as a witness. Her case ended with a jury unanimously acquitting the man she accused of raping her. But this line of enquiry was based on outdated stereotypes of what “real” rape looks like.

Delayed realisation, when someone does not immediately name that what happened to them was rape, is extremely common. Most people imagine rape as an obvious crime: a stranger attack, force, threats or immediate fear. But the reality looks very different for many victims.

Back in 1988, Liz Kelly, a professor of sexualised violence, reported that around 60% of women she spoke to could not name assaults when they happened. More recent studies, including research led by criminologist Jennifer Brown, and my own research with disabled victims of sexual violence, continue to show this pattern.

Nichols disclosed that she had consensual “vanilla sex” during a one-night stand with a man: “We did have a really fun night actually where I was fully up for it.” This made what happened later that night harder to comprehend. She woke up to find him having sex with her again, biting her back, breasts and thighs.

Being betrayed in this way by someone you trusted and had positive feelings for can cause disassociation and shock. Nichols described feeling “outside my own body” and on “autopilot” in the hours after being raped. Many victims cope by rationalising or minimising what has happened. One of my respondents told herself: “No, it wasn’t that bad, it was all okay.”

Victims may use humour or detachment as coping strategies. Nichols did this when she sent her friend a joking text message the morning after the rape. Although the correspondence with this friend included later messages where she gradually began to acknowledge that what happened wasn’t right, this initial text message was used against her in the trial.

Many victims have internalised rape myths: widely-held attitudes about how rape happens that are generally false. These beliefs may hinder them from naming their experiences.

Although delayed realisation can happen to anyone, it is important to acknowledge that disabled women in our research faced additional barriers. Some had limited access to sex education. Some grew up being treated as childlike or passive, and others had been repeatedly disbelieved by professionals when they tried to report more mundane instances of maltreatment. These conditions make it even harder to understand or dare to name sexual violence.

How delayed realisation is used against victims

The criminal justice system often treats delayed realisation as suspicious. Nichols’ delayed realisation and outwardly calm behaviour in the immediate aftermath were presented as proof that the sex must have been consensual.

The emotional scars caused by rape led Nichols to developed post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Emily Hunt, a former government rape adviser, claimed that 50% of sexual violence victims develop PTSD. On this ground alone, a large proportion of rape victims could be considered disabled and entitled to additional protections under the Equality Act.

Instead, rape victims’ trauma survival strategies, such as the “fawn response” – disassociation and masking one’s distress, as Nichols described – are exposed in court as evidence to undermine their credibility.

In my research this was especially common among neurodivergent women, who are generally well-versed at masking (mimicking neurotypical traits to fit into social situations).

Some respondents felt discriminated against because they expressed trauma differently from how they were expected to, for example by laughing when recalling uncomfortable events. Others were told they were “over-emotional” or “not emotional enough”. Several women said that their criminal justice experience made them feel that they were not the “right kind of victim”.

The current legal definition of rape requires that the perpetrator did “not reasonably believe” that the victim consented. Consequently, when Nichols’ case went to court, she was made to feel that she was on trial. The focus was on dissecting her behaviour in the aftermath of the rape to establish whether she had consented.

For most victims I spoke to, their cases were discontinued before they even reached court. Delayed realisation was routinely used to argue that it was not possible to “reasonably believe” that the victim had not consented.

The UK government’s ambition to increase rape convictions as part of the violence against women and girls strategy is commendable. However, low conviction rates will continue unless the law and how it is implemented are changed to reflect the reality that delayed realisation is a common trauma response for many rape victims.

Nichols’ courage in speaking publicly could open a national conversation about normalising delayed realisation. Her frank account is powerful, because it directly challenges many common rape myths, while highlighting how the presence of these views in the courtroom led to her feeling – and ultimately being – disbelieved.

Andrea Hollomotz has previously received funding from the Ministry of Justice for research about the formal support needs of disabled adult victim-survivors of sexual violence. The views expressed are those of the author and are not necessarily shared by the Ministry of Justice.